


when the going gets tough

by harlequin87



Series: Australia 2016 [1]
Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 19:29:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9672851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: George is injured on England's tour of Australia. Realisations and new relationships ensue.





	1. one

_Flowers grow out of dark moments._

_\- Corita Kent_

\--

The selection process had been brutal, the training painful and the plane journey even more so. But the reward of participating in an England tour to Australia made every second worth it. George was especially enjoying it because, even after Bath's mess of a season, Eddie had decreed that he was good enough to represent his country. He couldn't keep the smile off his face.

The team had one day off after reaching the Gold Coast to shake off their jetlag before training started again. The forwards splashed each other in the pool; the backs lounged around in their rooms. Owen, George and Ben were lazily sampling the TV's offerings, with Ben draped over the chair and the two flyhalves slumped on the bed. Owen's arm was stretched across George's shoulders.

"Are you looking forward to it?" Ben asked.

"Yeah, definitely - first senior tour and all that." George replied.

Ben feigned shock. "No, really? Actually-" he paused- "you were probably about twelve when it was the last Lions tour!"

"Kids these days grow up so fast, don't they?" Owen shot back, grinning widely. Ben leaned over and high-fived him. 

George let out a long-suffering sigh. "If I really have to remind you again, Owen, there are only four hundred and thirty-nine days separating us in age. Besides, I'm going to enjoy it, no matter what you say." 

Owen tipped his head to rest on George's. "Don't worry, mate, it will be fun. Even if we lose, you'll enjoy yourself - honestly." Ben rolled his eyes and turned back to the television.

After several more programmes of dubious quality, Ben and Owen left to go back to their rooms before curfew. George stepped out on to his balcony and watched the city lights blinking on the sea. The breeze on his face and the salty smell it carried were tangible reminders that this was really happening. So far, the tour had drifted past in a haze of anticipation and excitement. But now George was determined to cling on to every moment. Who knew when he would have an experience like this again?

The next morning was an early 7am start - Eddie had pushed for 6:30am, but forty indignant rugby players had overruled him. The morning skills session outside was cut short by torrential rain. The pitch was a marsh, George's hair was plastered to his head and Owen's stood up in dark spikes where he had run his hands through it.

Eddie ordered the players inside to change into dry clothes before lunch. George's teeth were audibly chattering and his lips were tinged with blue. Owen put George into the shower in the younger player's room and left a pile of clothes on the bed before going to change himself. When George went down to the hotel lobby, Owen was sitting with Alex and Elliot near a potted palm tree that seemed at odds with the weather.

"George!" Owen stood up to hug his friend. "Are you feeling warmer yet?" George shrugged quickly and sat next to Alex. "It's not really what you'd expect in Australia, but I guess it is winter here." George nodded in agreement as Owen looped an arm around his waist. "Anyway, Georgie, if you don't feel well, tell someone. I'd feel awful if you got pneumonia or something like that." George nodded again, cheeks colouring slightly. Thankfully - for him, at least - Eddie called the players into a strategy season at that moment, so all thoughts of Owen pressed against him could be set aside.

In the evening, Owen and George spent the time trying to play cards in Owen's room as the rain beat at the window and the wind howled outside. Eventually, they gave up on the game in favour of taking a nap before George had to leave. The younger man was curled into Owen's side while Owen fiddled with his dark brown hair.

"This reminds me of the U18 Argentina tour a bit, you know," Owen said, struggling to keep his eyes open. "Except you're not the youngest anymore."

"Yeah, well, I caught up eventually," George yawned. "Sleep now?" Owen nodded and pulled the blanket up to their shoulders.

Despite the late start and relatively light workload, they were both asleep within minutes. After an hour, George's phone pinged and he reluctantly dragged himself to his own room, leaving Owen with a bed that suddenly felt too large. He'd say it was the first time he had felt like that, by in reality he missed George's presence every day like an aching bruise: painful, but unfixable.

The next morning was Sunday, June 4th. It was a week until the first game of the series. The rain had continued to fall overnight and the pitches were covered in deep pools of water. That day's training had been moved inside - for the benefit of both the players and the grass. 

After the second session of the day, George and Owen stayed behind to practice kicking. Although George knew he would be the very last kicking resort after the Wales game, it was comforting to go through the familiar routines (and he would never admit it, but kicking was his favourite excuse to have some private time with Owen). Taking it in turns to kick at goal, hearing the satisfying sound of a boot connecting solidly with a ball, it sometimes felt like the last decade hadn't happened and they were teenagers dreaming about playing for England again.

"Hey, George!" Owen called. "Want to play kicking dares?" It was a game they had invented in U16s - take it in turns kicking and the first to miss three kicks has to fulfil a dare set by the other player.

George squared his shoulders. "You're on, Farrell. Let's go!" Despite Owen's rock-solid record off the tee, George knew exactly how to put him off. "Mate! I heard it's lasagna for dinner!" Owen rolled his eyes, kicked and missed. George lined up his kick and sent it straight between the posts. 1-0, Ford.

Owen shot a venemous glare at the other man before starting his routine. George cheerfully ignored it and hollered, "My brother has a crush on your sister!" Owen's foot wobbled slightly as it connected with the ball, which bounced off the post. Owen scowled.

George set the ball down smugly and went to kick it. "Gabriel wants to marry your brother," Owen shouted half-heartedly. George shrugged and put the ball through the posts. "It's not like I'm trying, mate," Owen muttered. His kick veered wildly off course, in contrast with George's ruler-straight effort. Final score: 3-0, Ford.

George let out a yell of victory and punched the air. "Okay, Owen. By the laws of kicking dares, I dare you to . . ." He paused. "You have to confess your undying love for the light of your life, Alex Goode, before dinner." 

Owen groaned, head in his hands. "I hate you," he grumbled in a muffled voice. "My hatred of you is second only to my hatred of Jamie Roberts."

George sniggered happily. "It's the rules, Faz. And you did suggest it, after all."

"Okay, fine. Before dinner, I will tell Alex about my crush. Happy?"

George nodded and ruffled his hair. "Go get your man, lad." Owen huffed in mock exasperation and started picking up the balls scattered around the pitch.

At dinner, George sidled up to Alex and nudged him. "Did Owen tell you anything just now?"

Alex gave him a funny look. "Yes, but he said it was private."

"About his crush?" George probed.

"Erm . . . I don't know how much I'm allowed to say."

"Mate - Alex. I know what he said; it was a kicking dare. I told him to say it. I'm just checking he actually did it."

Alex sighed. "I'm pretty sure that what he told me was serious, George."

"What? You think he likes you?"

Alex's eyes widened. "No! It is most definitely not that, but I'm not telling you who it was. He thought it would mess with the team's chemistry if they knew, and we can't risk it so close to the game."

George rubbed his eyes. "Well, that clears everything up! Thanks, Alex."

"Anytime, Fordy."

That night, George lay in bed and pondered his teammate's words. Who was Owen's secret crush? And - more importantly - why didn't he know already? Owen told him everything.

He went back to the puzzle. It couldn't be any of the forwards - who would want to date a forward? It wasn't Alex, and it couldn't be Ben. That left ten people - but not Te'O, because he was new and Owen had only known him for a few days. So, nine, then. George rolled over and pulled the covers over his head. His parents always said it helped to sleep on problems, so that's what he did.

But no earth-shattering revelations hit George when he woke up the next day, or the day after that. It was only on Friday, the day before the game, that George had any hint of who Owen's crush might be. After Owen had brushed off Haskell yet again, he made a beeline for Mike, Danny and Chris' table. Owen squeezed on to Danny's couch and immediately engaged him in conversation. George wrinkled his nose. Danny Care? Of all nine options, Danny Care? Owen clearly needed to be saved from his questionable life choices, ASAP.

George walked to Owen's table and talked to Chris and Mike for a few minutes, while studying Owen surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye. Mike snorted and poked Danny across the table when George's attention wandered from their discussion for the third time.

"Danny, I think Fordy wants his boy back. He keeps giving you the stinkeye." Danny smiled amiably and pushed Owen towards George. The flyhalf's embarrassment at being caught was outweighed by his relief at having saved Owen from the clutches of Danny Care.

"Thanks, lads. See you later!" He walked back to his room, Owen in tow.

Once the door was closed, George sat cross-legged on the bed and studied Owen for a few minutes. Finally, he broke the silence. "Danny Care, Owen? Please, please, please tell me your crush isn't him." 

Owen pulled a disgusted face that mirrored George's from earlier. "God, no. Anyway, I think he's got a girl-" He stopped suddenly. "How do you know I've got a crush?"

"Alex." George replied simply. To his dismay, Owen's face crumpled.

"Jesus, I'm so stupid. What if people find out and I get chucked off the team?" His shoulders were shaking. 

George slid off his bed and joined Owen on the floor. "Hey, mate, calm down. Who knows about this, anyway? Alex and me." Owen nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed and George's hand on his back wasn't helping his hiccupy, uneven breaths. "I'm not going to tell anyone about you being gay, just like you won't tell anyone about me being bi. Okay?" George shifted so he could rest Owen's head on his chest. "Alex would tell me who your crush is, so I doubt he'll tell anyone else. So we're okay, mate. Honestly, we're fine."

Owen's sniffs had subsided, but George knew he was still upset. "Owen, just tell me one thing. It isn't Tuilagi, is it?" Owen cracked a smile and shook his head. "Or Henry? 'Cause I heard he has a bit of a thing going with Dave Ewers, and I'd hate to break up that romance." Owen shook his head.

"It isn't Jack either. I mean, look at his hair!" Owen joked quietly.

George squeezed him tighter. "And just because I don't want to make any assumptions . . . It isn't a forward?" 

Owen laughed. "Nope. I suppose Clifford is good-looking in a forward kind of way, but he can't beat a back."

"Well, I'm glad we got that one sorted out, mate. You okay now?" 

"Yeah, I guess. I should probably go back to my room now."

"Go on then, Mr Starting Ten. I'll sleep in until half time and then come and rescue you!" Owen flipped him off before going back to his own room.

George grabbed his phone out of his suitcase and quickly typed a list of potential crushes:

\- Luther

\- Elliot

\- JJ

\- Anthony

He looked at the list and sighed. Owen would be good with any of those guys, but George selfishly wanted to keep him for himself. He changed into his pyjamas, turned off the lights and resigned himself to another night spent stewing in his own frustration.

Unsurprisingly, being grumpy about Owen's fledgling romantic life didn't help him sleep. George woke up at nine and groaned. He wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep, but Eddie wouldn't let anyone sleep past nine because they would 'lose their edge' or something pointless like that. So he pushed down the covers, slowly put on his tracksuit and went to breakfast. Everyone else was annoyingly cheerful and awake, so George loaded his plate with eggs and bacon and sat in the corner, as far away from the noise as possible. Within a minute, Owen had abandoned his seat with the other Saracens and sat down in front of George.

"Morning, sleepy!" Owen was too chirpy for nine in the morning. George groaned in response. "Ready for the game?" George grunted and continued eating. Owen leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. "Aren't you excited? Your first senior tour game?" He leaned even closer and whispered, "It's a chance for revenge after the World Cup! Be excited, Fordy!" George didn't respond and Owen sighed. "Okay, Georgie, come and talk to me when you've woken up properly." He patted George on the head and went back to his club teammates.

By lunch, George was fully awake and almost wishing he wasn't. Although the match started at 8pm, his stomach was churning and his hands were shaking. He sat with Owen, Ben, Anthony and JJ and distracted himself by seeing how much of Owen's food he could steal without being noticed. He'd taken almost half of Owen's vegetables and piled them on his plate before Owen twigged. "George Thomas, how could you?" Owen's eyes were wide and his mouth was hanging open. "Such betrayal!"

Anthony and JJ started to giggle at the look on Owen's face, which set George and Ben off. "Sorry, mate, you're just so oblivious!" George wheezed between laughs.

Owen rolled his eyes and scraped the vegetables back onto his plate. "I'm not the only oblivious one here, Fordy." The other men looked around in confusion, then shrugged and continued eating.

The drive to the Suncorp Stadium was quiet. George had his headphones on but Owen was still distracting him by nervously bouncing his knee up and down. George rested his hand on Owen's thigh and was rewarded by Owen immediately stilling. George laid his head on Owen's shoulder and closed his eyes. It was time to prepare for the game.

The match started, and England were ten points behind after fifteen minutes. George could tell Owen was frustrated by Luther's passive defence and lethargic attack. He just wasn't getting enough opportunities, and when he did, nothing was clicking. Owen's face was closing off and his shoulders were tight. George could practically see trouble approaching, even from the bench. Thankfully, the flyhalf kicked two penalties to take the score to 10-6 and some pressure off the team.

Luckily, Eddie had also seemed to notice Owen's exasperation. Luther was taken off after thirty minutes and George took his place. Owen turned round and grinned at his friend before pulling him into a tight hug. "Thanks for saving me, Georgie. I thought I was going to punch Burrell if he didn't start playing properly!" George patted him on the back before stepping away. The whistle blew and play resumed. JJ quickly snaffled the ball when Folau fumbled and scored England's first try. Owen converted and added a penalty before the break. England were leading 19-13.

George was buzzing with nerves before the second half. Sure, a six-point lead looked good, but the World Cup loss wouldn't get out of his head. The ball in his hands before kickoff helped to settle him, but the referee's whistle only intensified the tension again. However, within five minutes, George had spun a long pass out to Yarde on the right wing, and was watching breathlessly as the winger dotted the ball down in the corner for the try. Then Owen crashed into George for a hug, and everyone else was congratulating Marland, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Yes, Fordy!" Owen yelled. "That was so good!" George grinned at the joy on his best friend's face. That look was why he played rugby - for the sheer exhilaration and elation he could feel alongside his team. Owen pulled away to take the conversion, but George was still distracted by the sensation of Owen's hand trailing across his back. Owen added the conversion and another penalty before Hooper scored. The screens showed 18-29 to England, and the butterflies in George's stomach were going into overdrive.

Then Australia clawed back another seven points. There were nine minutes to go. Six minutes passed, and Foley kicked another three points. 28-32 to England. George felt like he was going to throw up. There were three minutes left.

Then Danny somehow ended up with the ball and sprinted into Australia's 22. The ball was recycled and ended up in George's hands. There were twenty seconds left on the clock. Jack was screaming for the ball on the wing, but the green and gold wall seemed impenetrable. He let go of the ball and, in a move perfected through hours on the training field, chipped it through the defenders. He stood still, fists clenched, as Jack danced through the Australians, picked it up off a bounce and slammed the ball down for a try. This time George knew Owen would be coming to him, and he turned round to jump into Owen's arms. This time, they were both shouting. Owen kicked the conversion to end the game 28-39 to England.

George - and the rest of the team - was riding an adrenaline high until he reached the hotel an hour and a half later. Suddenly, all the stress and exertion caught up with him, and all he wanted to do was sleep. But the rest of the team were murmuring about going to the bar, and he couldn't just leave. So he followed them to a bar near the hotel and ended up slumped against Owen in a booth, occasionally sipping his beer. The forwards all seemed to be obnoxiously awake, but George saw that JJ and Jack were both as tired as he was.

"JJ, Jack, do you want to head back now? I'm shattered."

Owen shot him a concerned look. "George, if you want to go to bed, you should have just said." Owen pushed Ben out of the way and herded George towards the exit.

George yawned and wrapped an arm around Owen's waist. "You're my best mate, you know, Faz. I love you. You're the best." 

Owen laughed, although his eyes looked sad. "Thanks, Fordy. I think we need to get you to bed now, yeah? You're going to be so grumpy tomorrow." George nodded and tightened his grip on Owen's waist.

They arrived at the hotel without incident, although Owen was still mildly horrified by Eddie's wink when he saw the two flyhalves leaving by themselves. Owen untangled himself from George's embrace and unlocked his door. "Time for bed, George. I'm going back to my room now. Sleep well!" Owen waited until George had taken his shoes off and gone into the bathroom to head back to his own room. Part of him wanted to stay and keep an eye on his friend, but a larger, more rational part of him knew that would be verging on creepy, so he went back to his own room to lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling. 

The next morning wasn't fun for any of them. George had a throbbing purple bruise on his right thigh and countless more aches elsewhere. Owen's head ached from the previous night's beer: although he hadn't had much, he hadn't drunk for months beforehand. The rest of the squad was in a similar shape. So - of course - Eddie decided today was the day for a beach recovery session.

In George's opinion, playing volleyball was fine. He was too small to hit most of the balls, but he was too tired to jump high enough anyway. Likewise, paddling in the sea while throwing a ball around was acceptable. But forcing a group of unwilling rugby players into the sea up to waist height was downright rude (or brave, depending on your viewpoint). George stood off to the side of the main huddle with JJ and Anthony, watching the Saracens players splashing each other and laughing. His stomach twisted as Owen was ducked by Mako Vunipola and came up spluttering with a huge grin on his face.

"Georgie!" Owen noticed George shivering and waded towards him. "Mate, come and join in. It's cold at first, but you don't notice it after a while." George smiled and let himself be pulled by the hand to the Saracens players.

"Fordy!" came the chorus of voices. With barely a second' set warning, George was being flicked with water from all directions. He hunched his shoulders and tried not to grimace. Then the shower paused, and he was too busy wondering why to hear Owen swimming up behind him.

Owen burst from the water and wrapped himself around George, dragging him under like a fifteen-stone octopus. George wriggled from his grasp but couldn't find his feet quickly enough and was grabbed again. Owen laughed as George clung to him. He carefully ruffled George's hair and started walking towards the shore so George could stand comfortably.

Once he had set George down, Owen turned round to see almost the entire team staring at him. "The lad's too short to reach the floor!" he shouted. In unison, everyone smiled in a patronising, 'if that's what you want to think' way. Owen smiled sarcastically at them and focused on George again. It wasn't his fault if none of his teammates had any sense of decency about them. 

That evening, the backs had organised a Mario Kart tournament in one of the hotel's function rooms. Owen and George sat squished together in one chair, George half on Owen's lap, Owen idly tracing patterns on George's back. George smiled to himself. This was an ideal time to work out Owen's crush for once and for all. He ran through the list of possibilities in his head (for the twentieth time that day): Luther, Elliot, JJ and Anthony.

Owen was laughing at JJ's disgruntled face as he fell off Rainbow Road yet again, but everyone was, so that didn't help. Anthony was sniggering at JJ's expression as almost every kart lapped him. George hummed. Not really Owen's type, he concluded, and mentally crossed him off the list. Elliot was vaguely cute, albeit in a horribly hipster way. George just couldn't see the working out. And Luther? Owen barely talked to him, but it could just be nerves. 

George twisted so he was facing his friend. "It isn't Luther, is it?" he asked quietly. Owen looked confused for a second, then shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. George shrugged and leant back against his chest to watch Ben being slaughtered by Henry and Jack. The two Exeter players high-fived as they enthusiastically knocked Ben into a landmine. George smiled softly to himself. This was what teams were for: having fun, pulling together and winning. England was definitely fulfilling those expectations right now.

The team flew out to Melbourne the next day. There were five days until the next match. George's muscles were still twinging when he ran, so he was inordinately grateful when Eddie scheduled a skills session instead of the contact game that had been planned. Everyone had stepped up their game, and the steely determination to be selected glinted in everyone's eyes. 

During the session, George couldn't stop laughing at Owen's mulish expression as he slotted drop goal after drop goal. When Owen tried, the only one of his attempts on target hit the crossbar and bounced back into play. George knew how it annoyed Owen, but then Owen's frankly ridiculous kicking percentage off the tee irritated him too.

The week continued, and the tension increased and increased until everyone was waiting in the hotel's meeting room after dinner on Thursday, waiting for Eddie to reveal the team for the match. It was nerve wracking. George noticed how Owen had subtly angled his chair towards George's, as if to offer moral support. Owen didn't need to worry like the rest of them - his kicking made him a highly-valued commodity. The rest of them? They had to fight for every cap.

Eddie began to read through the starting fifteen. "Mako, Dylan, Dan, Maro . . . " Owen grabbed George's hand. "Hask, Billy . . ." They shared a tense look as other players celebrated around them. "Fordy, Jack, Faz . . ." George hugged Owen fiercely, not knowing when he had stood up. Owen held him tightly. There were no words, but there didn't need to be. They already knew the joy, the nerves and the exhilaration that they were each feeling.

Once the squad had separated to either mope or celebrate in their rooms, Owen tugged George into a stretch of empty corridor. He rested his hands on George's shoulders and leaned forward until their foreheads touched. "Fordy - George. We did it!"

George squeezed his eyes shut as the emotion built up in his throat. "I know," he replied, somewhat hoarsely. "Who'd have thought it?"

Owen looked down briefly. "I did, Georgie. I believed in you, mate, and we're going to smash this game, yeah?"

George grinned weakly. "Of course, Faz. With your kicking and my good looks, we'll blow them away."

"Yeah," Owen repeated, softer this time. Then he broke the eye contact and slung an arm around George's shoulders. "I think this calls for a drink. You up for it?" George nodded his agreement and they walked back downstairs, leaving their moment of privacy behind.

On the evening before the game, George's mind was running in frantic circles of 'what if's' and 'wrong choices'. Eventually, he gave in - an hour after curfew - and texted Owen.

GF: you awake? can't sleep :(

OF: Yes. Come round.

GF: I'll be there in a minute

George pulled a sweatshirt on overnight his shorts and T-shirt, shoved his feet into a pair of flip flops and made his way along the corridor, Mission Impossible-style. By the time he reached Owen's door, his heart was pounding like he'd just scored a try from sixty metres out. 

He tapped quietly on the door, careful not to disturb anyone. He had a sudden vision of an irate Eddie Jones swooping out of nowehere and hauling him back to his room. He snorted, despite himself.

Owen opened the door, looking even more shifty than George, if such a thing was possible. George stepped inside and Owen immediately shut the door again. George sniggered. "We're not really cut out to be spies, are we? I mean, I thought I was going to get busted by the coaches for just thinking about leaving my room."

Owen grinned back. "Well, if you do get caught, blame it on me - I led you astray." George nodded, eyes slipping shut as the adrenaline of his escape ebbed away. "Come on, mate," Owen said. "Bedtime now."

George climbed into the left side of the bed, settling into Owen's warm spot. The older man pulled a face, but lay down on the other side anyway. "I didn't think we'd have to do this much more, you know." Owen said into the darkness.

"Sorry." George's voice was subdued.

"Hey, it's fine. I just thought you'd realised that you have a place on this team for good now - one that you deserve."

There was no reply for a long while. "It's just scary. We're in Australia, playing to make history: surely there's a better choice than me." 

Owen opened his arms and George gratefully moved into them. Owen made sure his friend was comfortable before replying. "Maybe there was before, but now you're the right man for the job. On the other hand, if you fall asleep in the middle of the game, you probably will get dropped."

George yawned loudly. "Thanks, Faz. G'night."

"Night, Fordy. Sweet dreams."

Match day arrived with a light breeze and the sun shining high over Melbourne. George sneaked back into his own room before Owen woke up to shower and change. He couldn't risk being caught in someone else's room, especially on the morning of a game. 

After a quiet breakfast, Eddie sent everyone to the gym to burn off their nervous anticipation. George cycled slowly for an hour, headphones on. It was the same playlist as usual, helping him get into the zone. Lunch was near-silent; the hushed conversation of the coaches and the clink of cutlery on plates were the only sounds. The match kicked off at eight, so Eddie wanted everyone on the bus, ready to leave, at six. Dinner would be earlier than usual, but George still had three hours to kill.

Up in his room, he slowly started to pack his kit bag. His hands barely faltered as he folded the warm-up shirt, or balled up his socks, or tightened his studs. It was a routine perfected over years, so natural to him that it was as easy as breathing. Finally, he went over to his suitcase and extracted the all-important packet of lucky gummy bears. The bright yellow packaging never failed to make him smile. He carefully concealed the bag beneath a roll of tape, away from prying eyes.

Then, a knock at the door. George groaned inwardly; bag packing was private, and people should respect that. He walked to the door and opened it. Owen was standing there furtively with his hands behind his back. They stood there for a second before Owen said, "Can I come in?" George shrugged and stepped aside, then closed the door after Owen.

"So, um . . . I brought you something. I thought you'd like it." Owen was perched on the end of the bed, eyes fixed on the floor.

George sat down on the chair opposite. "Okay. What is it?"

Owen flushed red as he pressed a small object into George's hands. He looked at it in confusion. "It's for your kit bag - y'know, with the gummy bears . . ." Owen rubbed the back of his neck. "They don't sell them in Australia, so I thought it would be a nice thing to do."

George smiled hesitantly at the Yorkie bar in his hand. "It's great, mate. I love it. Seriously, how did you know? It's just like the -"

"Argentina tour, yeah." Owen finished. "I guess I'll just go now, then . . ." He stood up to leave.

George shook his head and pulled him back down again. "No, Faz, you're staying here. You got me a great present, and I haven't got anything for you except some quality time with my TV, so you should stay." His voice softened. "It's awesome, Owen. I'm going to eat it after the game and enjoy every bite." Owen smiled uncertainly.

"So, mate," George said as he flopped down on the bed, "are we watching more Offspring or Neighbours?"

Owen grinned and lay down next to George. "Offspring, I guess. I think I've watched all of Neighbours already thanks to your obsession."

George threw the remote at him. "Whatever. You know you love it."

Three episodes later, Owen left to go and change into his tracksuit for the drive to AAMI Park. George gently put the bar of chocolate in the side pocket of his bag. It meant so much more to him than just a sugary snack, but he wasn't going to tell Owen that. They were rugby players, after all.

George was twitching imperceptibly throughout the coach journey, warmups and the anthems. It was only in the few seconds before kickoff that his mind settled and the nerves fell away. Foley sent the ball flying up into the evening sky and George could breathe again.

The first half swept by in a blur punctuated by crystal-clear moments: Dylan's try, Owen's kicks, the Aussies' retaliatory try. In the locker room at half time, 7-10 up, George's insides were twisting in anticipation once more. The whole team - the whole stadium, even - knew that the next forty minutes would be pivotal for English rugby as a whole. George sensed that what happened in the next few minutes would change everything - for him and for everyone else.

The half started in the same way as the previous one had ended - bone-crunching tackles, desperate defence and brief moments of respite. After eleven minutes' hard graft, England won a penalty and Owen converted it easily. The score was now 7-13 to England. But the Australians were immediately applying more pressure, forcing their way up the pitch once more. At fifty-seven minutes, the Wallabies were awarded a scrum penalty. Thankfully, Foley decided to kick for touch, not points. George's heart was in his mouth. 

The flyhalf stood on the wing, next to JJ and Dylan, waiting for the ball to make its way along the tryline to them. Then, a massive Australian forward came charging at him, seemingly out of nowhere. George ran towards the Wallaby, head down, braced for impact, when -


	2. two

Joubert's whistle blew, and Owen looked around in confusion. He couldn't see what the issue was. Everyone was onside, every pass had been definitively backwards . . . He watched the referee run to the opposite touchline and beckon the the team medics. Then he knelt down next to the prone player on the floor, who was wearing white, who had short, dark hair, who had the number ten on his back -

Owen brushed away his teammates' restraining hands and sprinted to George's side. "Sir, what's happened to him?" He asked, voice shaking. He was trembling all over. 

Joubert glared at him before replying. "He's been knocked out in a tackle. Dean Mumm, the TMO thinks. Looks pretty routine to me." Owen nodded his thanks. Then he was being led away from George by his captain, who had a comforting arm around his shoulders. 

"Hey, Faz, it's going to be fine, yeah?" Dylan said softly. "He'll have an HIA and sit the rest of the game out, but he might be good to play next week."

Owen smiled weakly, despite the tears gathering in his eyes. "If you say so, skips." Dylan hugged him tightly before entering the team huddle.

Owen wrapped his left arm around Dylan in the circle, but left a space to his right for George. It was like he was trying to pretend that everything was fine. But the pretence was shattered when Elliot moved into the space and said in a hushed tone, "Eddie says I'm at centre now, and Faz is flyhalf." The team nodded in unison. Owen smiled blankly. He felt numb. They'd always said that, out of the two of them, Owen would get knocked out first because he tackled so much more, but here they were, with George lying unconscious on the Australian turf.

He was yanked out of his dispondent mood by the huddle breaking up to applaud George as he was stretchered off. Owen knew the oxygen mask covering his friend's face was probably just a precaution, but that didn't help his wild train of thought. Once George had been carried down the tunnel, play resumed. There were fifteen minutes left on the clock. Owen gritted his teeth and squared his shoulders. He was going to play for George, and God help Dean Mumm if he went anywhere near Owen.

After a ferocious eight minutes, Owen looked up to see George walking slowly to the bench. His heart unclenched slightly, but he was still a mess of emotions inside. Seeing George talking quietly to Ben helped to settle his nerves, though. However, with barely six minutes left to play, the bench was suddenly surrounded by a swarm of team doctors, physios and - Owen noticed with horror - several paramedics. Joubert stopped the clock once more.

Dylan called the team together to relay the information that he'd been given. "Lads - we need to keep our heads on straight." Owen would have laughed in the situation was any less serious. "It's not looking good for Fordy at the moment, so they're taking him to hospital. I know I don't really need to say this, but still, let's play for George. Yeah?" The team murmured its agreement.

Dylan pulled Owen away from the others. "Hey, mate. How're you coping? I know it must be hard right now." 

Owen shrugged. "It's not like I can do anything to help, but-" His voice cracked and he angrily scrubbed his hand over his face. "Just got to do it for him now, I guess." A tear spilled from his eye and rolled down his cheek. Dylan patted him on the arm and walked off to check in with the other players.

The paramedics took over ten minutes carefully transferring George into the ambulance. Ben was standing nearby, head in his hands. Owen asked Joubert if he could go and talk to him, as they weren't going to start playing again for a while. The South African gave permission with a nod of his head and a sad smile. Owen walked over to Ben. The ambulance doors were just closing, and he caught a brief glimpse of George surrounded by various coaches and doctors.

"Hey, Ben," Owen said. Ben turned around and immediately pulled him into a crushing hug.

"Owen, Jesus, why him?" Ben sobbed. "I can't believe that just happened . . . Like, Fordy was here and now he's gone. We were just talking and then he - he -" Ben broke off. "It should have been me."

Owen held Ben closer. "I know. I don't see how he got knocked out when he barely makes any tackles. It should have been me - or anyone else, really, but not George." They stood in grief-stricken silence for a minute longer, until Owen was called back on to the pitch.

The entire English side was playing with such determination now that it was barely a surprise when Owen picked up Jamie's grubbed kick for the try within forty seconds. Owen let himself be hugged by his teammates, only reacting when Dylan mussed up his hair and murmured, "That was for Fordy, wasn't it? I could see it on your face." Owen nodded mutely. His emotions had to remain bottled up until the game had finished, or he would break down there and then. He slotted the conversion with relative ease, taking the score to 7-20 in England's favour.

Owen played with a robotic detachment for the remainder of the game, sealing the win with a penalty in the last minute. Finally, the referee's whistle blew to signal the end of the match. Owen sank to the ground, unable to stop the flood of tears. He was soon joined by the rest of the team bar those doing media, all kneeling in a haphazard circle. When Dylan and the coaches joined the group, they stood and linked arms.

"Boys," Eddie began, "I am so bloody proud of you. You've won a series in Australia and made history. But I suppose you're not really thinking about that right now." He waited for the cameras to stop circling before he spoke again. "George isn't doing great, I'll be honest with you. He's gone to the Royal Melbourne Hospital, so he'll be in good hands." He broke off. There was a prolonged silence. "We don't know much yet, but I'll keep you updated." The team murmured thanks and the group split up.

Owen found himself walking back to the locker room with Ben by his side. They were both dazed; unwilling to accept that the worst had happened to George, who had been their friend for so long. When they reached the changing room, Dylan handed them a can of beer each. But the atmosphere was more suited to drinking to forget than drinking to celebrate.

Owen rushed through his post-game routine, barely even drying his hair, and went to find Eddie and the coaching team. Most of the coaches were huddled in a group, looking shell-shocked. Neal Hatley, who had coached George at Bath, looked devastated. Owen coughed loudly and said, "Excuse me, but do you know anything about George?" 

Paul Gustard, Saracens' former defence coach, turned to him with a bleak smile. "Come with me, Owen. I'm afraid this won't be a pleasant conversation for either of us." Owen followed the coach through a maze of corridors until they reached an empty room with some chairs in it. Gustard sat down and motioned for Owen to take the chair opposite. "So, George. You know how he tackled Dean Mumm? Who is nearly a foot taller and four stone heavier than him? We've reviewed the footage, and George did everything right. Head out the way, low to high, everything. But Mumm changed direction halfway through the tackle, so George . . ." Gustard wiped his eyes. "His neck bent in a way necks shouldn't, to put it simply."

Owen felt cold. George was currently somewhere in Melbourne, most likely unconscious. He couldn't understand it. "Well, what's happening now? How is he?" 

Gustard winced. "When he arrived at the hospital, they assessed him in the Glasgow Coma Scale. Fordy scored an eight, which is not the worst level of coma, but it's still severe." Owen felt faint. George had been so excited for the series, and now he didn't even know they'd won. It was awful. 

He realised the coach was still speaking and zoned back in. "Once he was stable, they did a CT scan. Basically, his brain is swelling. They haven't decided on a course of action yet, but they should know soon." Owen nodded. It was so unfair: he was in perfect condition bar a few scratches from the game, while George was probably covered in mud and sweat as his brain expanded. He shuddered. The more he thought about it, the worse it got.

"When can I see him?" Owen asked. His voice was quivering.

"Tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, but don't get your hopes up. If he deteriorates at all, it'll be another day's wait. And it's quite likely that he'll continue getting worse for some time, according to the nurse we've been talking to." Gustard stood and clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Anyway, chin up, Faz. We've got to be strong for Fordy - and his family when they arrive." 

They made their way back to the changing room, which was sombre and quiet. Ben was sitting morosely in the corner, staring at George's kit bag in the floor by his feet. Owen slumped next to him and knocked their shoulders together. "Do you want me to move that?" Owen asked, gesturing at the kit bag. Ben nodded. Owen scooped the energy bars off George's space on the bench and dropped them into the bag. He was about to zip it shut when he saw George's Yorkie bar nestled safely in the corner.

A wave of grief ripped through Owen, and tears were threatening to spill again. He grabbed the bag and kicked it under one of the first aid benches with more force than was strictly necessary. Stupid bag, stupid Dean Mumm, stupid George for actually tackling for once. When he returned to the locker room, Eddie was about to speak. Owen nodded his apologies and hurried to his seat.

"The Aussies have decided that we don't have to go to the post-match dinner, given the consequences, so . . ." He shared a look with the other coaches. "George can have some visitors tomorrow, so you boys should probably decide between you who's going first. The hospital says it's got to be three at a time for the moment, though - it's their policy." Dylan looked questioningly at Eddie and stood up when the older man nodded at him.

"Right, lads," he started. "Any suggestions for who should go?" Several Bath and Saracens players nominated Owen at once, and the rest of the team agreed. Owen quietly suggested Ben, which was accepted almost as unanimously. Dylan nodded. "And the last person?" The vote seemed pretty evenly split between Anthony, JJ and Dylan himself. The captain shrugged. "We're all going to get a chance at some point, so one of you two should go." After a short discussion, it was decided that JJ would be the third player to make a visit.

After a few more subdued minutes, the coaches began encouraging the players to head for the team bus. Owen took his usual seat at the back, and fastidiously avoided looking at George's empty place in front of him. When the team had eaten, they separated to either do some stretching in the hotel gym or to go to their rooms and sleep. Owen opted for an early night, despite the churning in his stomach. Staying awake wasn't going to help George or anybody else, especially when he was so sick with nerves.

Waking up the next day was like waking up from a nightmare, only to realise that you're still asleep. Owen's legs twinged when he moved and his jaw ached from the way he'd been tensing it all night. At breakfast, the mood was downcast. Even though George wasn't the loudest in the mornings, the muted conversations reflected his absence. After the meal, Eddie called everyone into a conference room for a briefing.

"Owen, JJ and Ben are all going to the hospital later, of course. Everyone else will be doing rehab exercises and relaxing as they see fit. If anyone wants to speak to any of the coaches in confidence, come and talk to me afterwards and we'll arrange something." Owen went to the hotel pool and half-heartedly ran through his rehab routine. Then it was just killing time, wasting minutes and seconds, until they could leave for the hospital. 

Eddie had come to see the players and Gustard off, and as Owen passed him, he caught his arm. "Remember it's still very early in the recovery period. Don't expect too much." Owen nodded blankly and hurried after the others. As the car door swung shut behind him, he heard Eddie say quietly, "I don't know whether to be more worried for Faz or Fordy right now."

The journey to the Royal Melbourne Hospital took twenty minutes, and every second dragged. Each red light increased Owen's frustration until it was almost unbearable. From the looks on their faces, he could tell Ben and JJ were feeling the same. Finally, they arrived. They followed the signs to the ICU and Gustard spoke to the receptionist. In a chirpy Australian accent, she informed them that a nurse would show them to George's room within ten minutes, and could they please take a seat?

Owen took a chair directly opposite the door, Ben and JJ flanking him. The distinct hospital smell was putting him on edge, bringing back memories of his knee surgery and the agony that came with being sidelined for so long. When a nurse came up to them, she introduced herself as Emma, one of George's several nurses. "Are you Mr Ford's family, or just friends, gentlemen?"

Before Owen could start arguing with her description of him as 'just' a friend, Gustard answered, "Teammates. But Owen in particular has known George for over ten years, so we all care deeply about him."

Emma cast an appraising glance towards Owen before saying, more sympathetically this time, "Of course, gentlemen. Now, before you can see him, I have to warn you that he is in a coma, which is rarely as sanitised as in films. It won't be pretty, but patients always respond well to the presence of their loved ones, however ill they look." The four men nodded.

She turned around and walked down a long corridor filled with doors. After passing some empty rooms, she halted outside a closed door. "As you may know, only two visitors are allowed inside at any one time. Which of you will go first?" Gustard stepped back and JJ pointed at Ben and Owen. "Okay, let's go in." She opened the door and stepped inside.

Ben motioned for Owen to go first, and he walked in with trepidation. He looked at the bed and his heart twisted. George was dressed in a standard grey hospital gown, pale against the clean white sheets. The only colour in the room came from a shockingly red surgery scar, just behind his left ear. The room was silent but for the beeping of machines.

"Can I . . . Can I touch him?" Owen asked faintly, hand gripping the chair by the bed for balance. 

Emma nodded. "Not his head, obviously. Watch out for wires and you'll be fine." Owen sat down on the chair. His hands were shaking. He could hear his friend's voice saying, "Come on, Faz, man up!" He steeled his nerve and took George's hand in his own. He could feel Ben's presence at his back, but for a precious few minutes everything narrowed to the rise and fall of George's chest, the pulse in George's wrist and the warmth of his skin. The touch stirred memories of countless sleepovers before games, George cheerfully berating Owen for any number of things, from his hair to his tackling technique. But the happy memories when muted by George's utter lack of movement.

Ben's hand on his arm made him jump. "Try talking to him, yeah? He'll probably respond best to you out if all of us." He looked at the nurse for confirmation, and she smiled and nodded. 

"Hey, Georgie. We won, you know. And I scored a try for you." His voice cracked. "So we've won the series now, mate. But it isn't the same without you, so get better soon." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please, Georgie. I need you - it's not fair. Just, for me - please." He gave George's hand a squeeze, patted him carefully on the shoulder and made way for Ben. All of a sudden, the still, sanitised air of the room was stifling, and he bolted out into the corridor. 

JJ caught him by the shoulders and pulled him in for a quick hug. Owen felt himself tense up even more, and he started to cry. Although he would deny it later, the concerned gaze of Paul Gustard was the only thing stopping him from sliding to the floor and sobbing. Conveniently, Ben emerged from George's room at that moment and tugged him further down the hall. "Come on, mate, let's go somewhere else." Ben murmured. He turned and mouthed 'café' at JJ, who nodded quickly. Then he herded Owen down the stairs to the ground floor café. They sat at a table in the corner, Owen rubbing at his eyes.

"God, Owen, I don't know what to say. Did the nurse tell you about his surgery when you were in there?" Owen shook his head. "Basically . . ." Ben looked nauseous. "He had a CT scan and his brain was swelling really quickly. So they got his parents' number from Eddie and asked if they could operate." It was Owen's turn to feel sick. "That scar behind his ear is where they drilled - God, this is horrendous." Owen made an impatient gesture when Ben didn't start to speak again. "They put a monitor between the skull and the brain to see if it keeps swelling. If it does, they'll have to remove some of his skull to relieve the pressure."

Owen's hands flew to his mouth. There was a long silence before either of them spoke again. "I'm going to  _smash_ Dean Mumm," Owen growled, jaw clenched. "I don't care how, or when, but it's going to happen. Jesus! This is horrific." Ben nodded and squeezed his hand in support. "And George of all people. It couldn't have been me, or anybody else. It had to be him, and now he's in a bloody coma and of his  _skull might have to be removed_." His voice rose to a shout. "I swear, Dean Mumm is going to wish he'd never set foot on a rugby pitch when I'm done."

Thankfully for Ben, JJ and Gustard arrived at that moment. "I've got some leaflets from the nurse for you boys and the rest of the team about what's going to happen, so you can read them later." Gustard waved some innocuous-looking pamphlets at them. "And we should be heading back to the hotel now, because there's still training tomorrow." With Owen's angry tirade hovering at the back of their minds, they took a taxi back to the hotel.


	3. three

Training that week was a poor facsimile of its usual standard. Owen was having to adjust to having Luther as his centre again, after the disastrous start to the first game. It didn't help that Luther kept pulling back, hesitating in the knowledge that he was only playing again because his rival was in hospital. Owen felt like screaming at him - not that it would be any use. They couldn't forge the kind of relationship that Owen and George had developed over years in a few days.

But Owen kept waiting for a call that didn't come, or a quick-footed flash of white by his side, or a laughing suggestion that he should try a dropgoal. It all made flying out to Sydney the day before the game more painful. Owen spent a solid ten minutes rambling to George about the weather, their hands entwined, before Gustard took him out of the room so they could get to the airport on time.

Owen twitched, and tapped his foot, and fiddled with his headphones all the way to Sydney. Every mile between him and George stretched his nerves to breaking point. As soon as he could after they arrived at the hotel, he headed to the gym, intending to burn off the growing anxiety. However, barely twenty minutes later, Dylan was walking up to him and pulling him off the bike with an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. "Sorry, mate, but the boss wants to see you. He's in room 218 with the other coaches." Owen grunted sullen assent. If Eddie wanted to have a heart-to-heart, he could think again. The only thing that would snap Owen out of his mood was being with George again, and that couldn't happen then might before the final game of the series.

Eventually, common sense prevailed and he went up to the coaches' room. Steve Borthwick opened the door with a sympathetic smile and offered him a chair. Sitting in a half-circle facing him were Eddie, Steve, Paul Gustard and Neal Hatley - all past Saracens and Bath coaches, Owen realised. Eddie leaned forward to speak. "How are you coping, Owen?"

"Well, fine, really-"

"Faz, pardon my French, but cut the crap." Paul cut in. "You're obviously not, and we wouldn't expect anything else."

Steve took over. "But you need to let us help you. Everyone can see George means a lot to you, so it makes sense that you're feeling conflicted right now."

Owen pushed down an urge to roll his eyes. "Thanks, I guess? But unless you can fix him, there isn't much else you can do." 

Neal Hatley sat forward. "The nurses probably told you that patients in comas respond better to those close to them. I haven't known you personally for very long, but it feels like years because I've heard so much about you from George." Owen couldn't stop a pleased smile spreading across his face. "So, in light of that, we've come to the conclusion that, if you're willing, you should be one of the players staying in Australia with George along with his mother, when she arrives. We'd arrange visas and accommodation, of course."

"Who else is staying?"

"Ben Youngs has already agreed, and Dylan's said he'll stay for a week - his wife needs help with the baby. And I think I speak for all of us in this room when I say supporting a player in such serious circumstances takes priority over a few weeks of holiday."

Owen nodded. "I'll stay, then. I appreciate the offer, really, I'm just a bit . . . On edge at the moment." He stood and shook hands with the coaches. "I'll see you tomorrow." He left the room, closing the door behind him. It was good to know that his feelings for George were so obvious, but . . . His jaw dropped.  _George actually didn't know._ That made several things a lot clearer. Firstly, George interrogating Alex after that stupid kicking dares confession and being incredibly unsubtle about trying to discover who Owen's crush was. Secondly, swooping in to pull him out of that conversation with Danny Care because he thought Danny was unsuitable. George was such a stupidly caring, ridiculously oblivious friend.

Owen was still a tangle of complicated emotions, but his heart felt lighter in his chest. He'd thought for so long that George had realised about Owen's crush on him but was trying to let him down gently by ignoring it. Instead, he was faced with the distinct possibility of George reciprocating his feelings. Practically the only downside was that he couldn't ask George about it. So he settled for the next best option and went to talk to Ben.

The scrumhalf opened the door with a terse "You can come in, but shut up - I'm Skyping home." Owen nodded obediently and waited for Ben to finish his call. The soft expression on Ben's face as he listened to Boris' babbling made Owen long for something like that for himself - if not kids just yet, at least someone to come home to at night. His last serious relationship had been four years ago, and if it turned out he couldn't have George, he could try dating again. It wouldn't be the same, but his empty house was starting to wear on him.

The sound of Ben's laptop clicking shut jolted him out of his thoughts. "What's up, mate? You seem a bit . . . I don't know, spaced out?" 

Owen sat cross-legged on the bed opposite his friend and considered his words before he spoke. "You know how I'm gay? And George is bi?" 

Ben nodded. "Birds of a feather and all, yeah."

"Do you think . . ." Owen paused. This conversation was rapidly approaching teenage girl territory. "Do you think he, y'know, likes me?"

Ben fixed him with a pointed stare. "Owen Farrell, are you really questioning if George likes you? He's obsessed, we all know that."

"Yeah, but does he  _like_ like me? Thing is, I've just realised that he doesn't know that I like him."

Ben cackled. "God, you two idiots deserve each other. George has had a crush on you since he was fourteen, Owen. Are you telling me that you've never actually noticed him staring at you?"

Owen ducked his head. "I guess I just assumed he didn't feel the same." He scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned. "This is going to be so awkward now, though. I can't act to save my life, and he's going to wake up and think I don't want to be friends anymore."

Ben sniggered. He seemed to think the situation was  _funny_ , Owen thought sourly. "Technically, you don't want to be friends, though." Owen kicked him (but gently - they had a game to win, after all). There was a knock on the door, and Owen was suddenly aware of how loud they had been talking. They exchanged glances and Ben got up to answer the door. It was Eddie.

"Sorry to break up the slumber party, boys, but it's curfew now." Owen jumped off the bed, said goodnight to the other men and went back to his own room.


	4. four

The Test match the next day was a welcome distraction from Owen's internal struggles. He could also blow off any friendly enquiries from the team under the pretext of 'getting in the zone'. He'd agreed to wear a shirt with George's name on the back along with the rest of the team, but it felt like more of a glimpse into a hopeful future than a tribute to his best friend. Warmups narrowed his focus to the weight of the ball in his hands, the early evening breeze and the shouts of the other players. By the time they had sung the anthems, Owen was so keyed up that he'd almost forgotten about George, alone and vulnerable in a hospital bed five hundred miles away.

Owen kicked off for England, and everything settled into place. The phases built and built and the pressure on the Wallaby defence grew and grew, until the dam burst and Dan Cole shoved his way over the line for the try. Owen converted it with relative ease, and England had a seven-point lead. But then Foley and Haylett-Petty both scored within ten minutes to take the tally to 12-7 in favour of the home side.

The fly-halves exchanged penalties, taking the tension up a notch. Mike Brown crossed and Owen converted on the half-hour mark, restoring England's lead for the second time. If Owen had to describe his primary emotion in that moment, it was fear - fear of making a mistake, fear of Eddie's reaction to his play and (probably most importantly) fear of not being able to tell George about their series whitewash when he woke up.

Foley kicked another penalty to end the half and make the scoreboard read 18-17 to Australia. The locker room was bubbling with energy and Owen knew everyone just wanted to finish the job. He could see it in the tapping feet, the slightly too-wide eyes and the volume of mud being picked off studs. Eddie kept his speech short and simple: stick to the game plan and they will make a mistake. Careful play, but not cautious. Don't overthink it.

The coach's advice was - as usual - correct. Within five minutes, Billy Vunipola had crashed over the try line to retake the lead. Owen missed the conversion and growled in frustration. But he redeemed himself with a penalty from near the halfway line to give England some breathing room and a seven point lead. No sooner had the players begun to relax into a slower tempo, Hooper dived over the line from five metres out. Foley duly converted and the scores were tied. Two more England penalties and a converted Wallaby try left the scoreboard showing 32-31 to Australia with twenty minutes to go.

Then - in a moment of either madness or genius - Jamie George grubbed the ball through the Australian lines. Owen instinctively hacked it forwards again and fell onto the ball as it bounced into the try area. He scrambled to his feet and leapt onto Jamie's back, yelling in triumph. Kruis and Itoje grabbed him in a tight hug; a little knot of Saracens amongst the Australian hordes. Owen felt like he could fly, if not for the omnipresent worry for George anchoring him.

The fly-halves each added more points until England were winning 35-41 with nine minutes left on the clock. The team was holding its collective breath. The situation was eerily similar to the World Cup the previous year, with the potential of victory being snatched away in the dying moments. But then, with one minute to go, the Australians were ruled offside at the ruck. Owen ran through his kicking routine, hyperconscious of the fine balance between running the clock down and getting the points. 

He kicked well, and the score was 35-44 with five seconds left. There was no way the Australians could win. But the Wallabies kept fighting, grinding out the metres until the try was scored, four minutes into overtime. Foley couldn't convert, and England had a series whitewash in Australia.

Owen was soon pulled away from the handshake line after the trophy was presented to do his man-of-the-match interview. A small Australian woman with an entirely fake smile thrust a microphone into his face and began a barrage of questions, barely seeming to pause for breath. Owen fended them off as best as he could, but after three minutes' relentless interrogation, she finally found the weak spot in his armour.

"How would you say the loss of George Ford has impacted both the team and you as an individual?" 

Owen bit back a curse as tears threatened to gather in the corners of his eyes. "Well, obviously . . ." His voice wavered. "It's been a challenge for the lads and for myself to adapt to playing without him, especially when we were clicking so well. But-" He broke off to rub a hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was thick with emotion. "As much as I miss him during games, it's one of the worst things that's ever happened to me off the pitch."

Owen looked past the camera and the interviewer to see Eddie and Dylan furiously remonstrating with a TV operator and gesturing towards him. Hearing the commotion, the lady hastily said, "Thank you, and congratulations," and ushered him away.

Dylan rushed over and grabbed him in a hug. "Owen, mate, I am so sorry - she was out of order, asking about Fordy like that."

Eddie settled for a ruffle of his fly-half's hair and murmuring, "You'll be back with him soon, don't you worry." Owen started to cry in earnest at that, which was - of course - when the rest of the team arrived to witness him silently sobbing into his captain's shoulder. Ben prised him off Dylan, wrapped an arm securely about his waist and led him into the locker room.

"Come on, mate," Ben said gently. "We're flying back to Melbourne tomorrow afternoon, so you'll see him in less than a day." Owen nodded mutely and allowed Ben to sit him down in his stall. "Go shower, buddy, and then we can have pizza." The rest of the team gave Owen a wide berth as he methodically undressed and went into the showers. He winced as the water ran over some of his muddy grazes, but it felt like nothing compared to the sting of George's absence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are loved!


	5. five

The post-match meal was more awkward than could have been foreseen. Owen and Dean Mumm were seated at opposite ends of the room, but all the Bath and Leicester players refused to sit near him too. The lock ended up in a table with the Harlequins and Exeter players, flanked by Pocock and Hooper. Unsurprisingly, there was little conversation. Owen feigned tiredness and left as soon as he'd finished eating.

Nobody followed him, so he found an empty room with a few chairs in it and sat down. Five hundred miles, he reminded himself. Five hundred miles, a ninety-minute flight and they would be together again. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his emails. Hunching over, hands protectively cradling the phone, he opened the latest update from the hospital, Eddie had been diligently forwarding every message from the medical team to the players, but Owen couldn't face reading them in front of the others.

When the email had opened, he scanned through it.  _Stable . . . swelling decreasing . . . improved response to pain . . ._ Owen's heart unclenched a fraction. Compared to the previous emails, full of technical terms and carefully-worded warnings, it was tentatively positive.

It was a week since George had been knocked unconscious, but time dragged for Owen. With every heartbeat, he found himself wondering if the machines monitoring George's vitals were still beeping steadily, or if there had been a crash that they just hadn't heard about yet. It was a tense, nerve-wracking agony, and Owen couldn't wait to be with George again. It was twenty hours, then ten, then they were boarding the flight, then mandatory recovery exercises, then one hour, and then it was time to go to the hospital.

Walking into the ICU reception with Dylan and Ben by his side, Owen felt quietly optimistic for the first time in a week. George was recovering well and the doctors said that all signs pointed towards him regaining consciousness within the next week. They waited in their usual seats for Emma to take them to George's room, and Owen was almost relaxed, given the circumstances.

Emma was walking toward them, a smile on her face, when suddenly the monitor on her belt started buzzing. Her face dropped and she hurried back down the corridor. She only had one patient, Owen knew, and that was George. So if she had been called back to his room unexpectedly, that could only mean one thing . . . 

Owen started towards the door. Ben tried to pull him back, but Owen shook him off angrily. "Get off me, Ben. For all you know, he could be fucking  _dying_ in there right now. I have to see him."

Dylan made a frustrated noise. "Faz, sit down. If you're needed, they'll come and get you. As it is, stay here. You're making a scene." Owen sat down, muttering mulishly to himself.

Half an hour later, Emma reappeared, looking strained. "Mr Farrell?" she asked. "Could I speak to you quickly?" Owen nodded and stood up. His hands were shaking. They went into an empty room and she spoke again. "I'll be honest with you - Mr Ford is deteriorating and we don't know why." Seeing the terrified look on Owen's face, she continued. "Sometimes patients just stop fighting, and that's when we need their loved ones to help us. Would you be able to talk to Mr Ford for us, maybe give him something to fight for?" Her words were professional as ever, but her eyes, wide and pleading, betrayed her fear.

"Of course I can," Owen answered, throat suddenly dry. He needed water, but George needed him more. They hurried to George's room, and Owen took a deep breath before going inside.

A group of murmuring doctors was huddled around George's bed; an oasis of calm amid the frantic beeping of machines. One of them looked up, catching Owen's eye, and herded the group away from the bed. Owen approached George slowly, every step lasting a lifetime, and took his usual seat by the bed.

"Hey, George," he started. "So, it looks like you're-"  _dying_ , he didn't say. A lump formed in his throat. "Not doing too great. But I want you to keep fighting, yeah? For your parents, for the team, even for- for me, mate. Please, Georgie." His eyes were wet. "This is hard enough for me already, and you can't die on me, please." He took George's hand and pressed a shuddering kiss to it. "And-" he looked around and leaned closer to George- "I really, really like you, okay? It might even be love, I don't know. And, I guess what I'm trying to say is . . . I can't let you go without giving this -  _us_ \- a chance. So please, Georgie, try for me. Fight hsrder, and don't give up."

He wracked his brain to think of something else to say, something to cover up the horrible irregular beeping of the monitors. "It's like what you always used to tell me at school: every time you get knocked down, you have to get up and try harder next time. This is your chance to show me that you really believe it, mate. Please." He stayed like that for a while longer, feeling George's pulse gradually return to normal. A nurse prised him away from George and led him back to the waiting room.

Dylan and Ben were still sitting there, looking shell-shocked. "Hey, Faz," Ben said, glancing at the tears trailing downs Owen's cheeks. "Are you okay? You're look kind of . . . Fragile, I suppose."

Owen scrubbed a hand across his face. "It's scary, you know. He was getting better and suddenly he's not and what if I'm not here next time?" His voice shook.

"Oh, mate," Ben said, sounding choked up. "Come here." Dylan and Ben pulled him into a tight hug. "Don't worry about him," he continued. "We've got his back, and the doctors know what they're doing." Owen made a noise of assent.

They stepped apart and Dylan said, oddly unsure, "Can we go and say hi, or not? I don't want to get in the way of anything."

Emma walked over. "I'm sure Mr Ford would appreciate any support you feel able to give, particularly at this crucial time." They nodded and Owen followed the other men back to George's room. He decided to wait outside and let his teammates have their time with the fly half.

The door hadn't been completely closed, so Owen was just able to make out Ben's hushed words. "Please wake up soon, Fordy. It's bloody awful for all of us - especially Faz. He's been so scared, and I don't know how much more he can take." Owen was suddenly fighting back tears. He hadn't realised how obvious it was, but his snappish behaviour must have been affecting the team too. Lost in thought, he only looked up when Dylan and Ben emerged from the room and they went back to the hotel.

Owen thought he'd been nervous before. Kicking in the World Cup, the minutes before European finals, even waiting to hear if his knee needed surgery . . . But it all paled in comparison with this. The doctors constantly reiterated that the longer the coma, the more likely there was to be lasting damage. It was nine days since George had been knocked out in the second Test. Each passing hour brought forth new horror scenarios - George fading in a slow, dreadful decline, George's swelling increasing, or even just a failure to fight back against more deterioration. Owen was spending more time in the gym than was strictly necessary for the offseason, but it helped to fill the time between hospital visits and the gap George left in his life.

Finally, on June 28th, the doctors had some good news. After the terrifying dip, George's vital signs were steadily improving and even surpassing their pre-crash levels. "We expect him to regain some form of consciousness within the next few days," a grey-haired doctor told Owen solemnly. He resisted the urge to punch the air and instead hurried into the corridor to text the news to Eddie and the team's phone tree.

More encouraging news followed over the next forty hours, until Owen was back for his usual Thursday afternoon visit. Everything was normal for the first twenty minutes, but then something happened that made Owen's heart jolt. He continued speaking, but with less purpose than before, just to fill the empty spaces in the room. There! It happened again.

Owen patted George on the arm and backed out of the room to find a nurse - or anyone, really, who could tell him that he wasn't dreaming. Alicia, one of George's many nurses, came to George's bedside to watch and wait with Owen. They sat still, silent, trying not to disturb whatever delicate pieces were clicking back into place inside George's brain. Then, again - a flicker of an eyelid, then a slower, more deliberate movement, one that could even be described as a blink.

After a tense five minutes, George had blinked another twelve times. Owen couldn't control his grin. He knew he looked like the Cheshire Cat, but who could blame him? His best friend was stirring from his coma, and most of the staff mirrored his expression. George hadn't opened his eyes again for several minutes, but the doctors were sure that he was tired from his exertion, so sleeping again was expected.

Owen pulled out his phone and unlocked it, about to message Eddie, when he decided that this merited more than just a text. He found the coach's number in his contacts and pressed the call button. "Hey, Eddie," he said.

"G'day, Owen. Not to be rude, but what's so important that a text couldn't have done? Some  of us have jobs in summer too, y'know."

Owen smiled like he hadn't in days. "George opened his eyes, Eddie! Like, properly, even though he's asleep again now." He sighed, but without any of the weight it had carried before. "So, yeah - good news!"

"That's great, Faz," Eddie replied warmly. "I'll tell the guys and they can organise some more trips, now he's started waking up."

"Awesome. Thanks, Eddie."

"Don't worry about it, mate. I'm really happy for you."

Owen ended the call, beaming. Now more than ever, he wanted to tell George about this exciting news, but he couldn't. But soon - soon! He would be able to, when George woke up and could talk and walk and be generally awake. He shivered a little, a feeling of euphoria running down his spine. It was too good to be true.


	6. six

Despite Owen's best efforts, the hospital still wouldn't let him sleep in the waiting room, so he grudgingly left after visiting hours were over and returned the next day with JJ and Ben.

"He's actually, like, waking up now?" JJ asked as they crossed the reception area.

Owen laughed. "Yeah, mate - he's doing really well. But the nurses keep saying to not treat him like a zoo exhibit. It's still George."

Ben nodded his agreement. "Fordy's still fighting - we can't stop helping him now." They went to George's room and Owen nudged open the door.

His eyes were open, if unfocused, but the men were just glad to see them again. Owen waved. "Hey, Georgie! It's Owen, with Ben and JJ." He took a seat on one side of the bed and George's hand, while JJ and Ben sat opposite. 

"So you'll never believe what Dylan did today . . ." Ben started. While his friend talked, Owen took the opportunity to stare unencumbered at George. There was more colour to his skin, he noted, no longer the flat white of paper. Even when his eyes were closed, there weee tiny, almost imperceptible flickers behind his eyelids. Owen smiled and squeezed George's hand.

George squeezed back.

Owen's jaw dropped. "JJ, Ben," he whispered. "Did you - did you see that?" His voice rose. "I squeezed his hand, and he did it back!" The other men grinned. "Georgie! That was bloody amazing!"

A nurse rushed in, probably as a result of the shouting. "Are you okay, gentlemen? Is Mr Ford alright?"

Owen held up their linked hands. "He squeezed my hand!"

The nurse's face mirrored theirs. "That's great! Let me call the other nurses: we need to run some more tests, if he's responding this well."

Within minutes, four nurses were crowded around the bed. Ben tilted his head towards the door and raised his eyebrows. Owen nodded reluctantly. "Bye, Georgie," he murmured, ruffling George's hair once more before leaving.

Out in the corridor, Owen pulled Ben and JJ into a tight hug. They stood, heads tipped together, shaking with excitement. Owen opened his mouth to speak, but there was no way to articulate the joy coursing through his body. "I expect everyone's already heard through Eddie, but let's go and tell the guys, eh?" Ben said. "George knows we were here, and the team should hear about it firsthand." He led them along the quiet corridor into the bustling waiting room beyond.

\--

A blur of light, dark, flashes of colour . . . A hand grasping his, and hushed voices. The someone saying, "Hey, Georgie!" The sudden realisation -  _Owen_. The hand, Owen's hand, clutching his, like so many times before, and the instinctive reaction of squeezing back.

\--

By the next day's visit, George had made incredible progress, according to the doctors. His eyes followed Owen across the room as he walked in, flanked by Eddie and Dylan. When Owen took his hand, there was a suggestion of a smile on his face, mimicked by the other fly half's broad grin.

"Hey, Fordy," Dylan said. "You're doing good, I see. And Faz here won't stop talking about you - although that's nothing new!" Owen smiled bashfully under Eddie's knowing gaze, but the crinkling around George's eyes made it worth the embarrassment. "Anyway," Dylan continued, "I'm going home in a few days, so get better, so I can go with a clear conscience." He patted George firmly on the shoulder and retreated to the corridor.

"Keep your head up, mate," Eddie said. "You're getting there, but remember - slow and steady wins the race. We don't want you to risk anything, and I know that Owen here wouldn't be able to cope." George blinked solemnly at him. Eddie gently punched George's shoulder and went to find his captain.

Then it was just Owen and George, alone in the bare hospital room. Owen sighed. "Georgie, I know they're trying to help, but take as much time as you need." His voice cracked. "I want my best friend back, and I don't care how long I have to wait. Hell, I'll sit here for the whole offseason if you want me to." George squeezed Owen's hand and his eyes crinkled again. "Thank you, Georgie. Now, I have to go, and you should sleep, so I'll see you in two days, okay?" He leaned forwards and pressed a tentative, fleeting kiss to George's forehead. "See you then, Georgie," he whispered, and backed out of the room.

When Ben heard about the latest development in the Farrell-Ford saga, he squealed like a toddler at Christmas, and then hit Owen none-too-lightly on the arm. "I can't believe you, Owen Farrell. I go to the hospital with you so many times, and you wait until the first day in a week when I don't go to make a move? Jesus, kid, work on your timing."

Owen grinned, despite himself. "I did it, though! Aren't you proud?"

Ben put out his hand for a fistbump. "I'm ecstatic, Faz, but you've got to let me come next time. This is the sort of thing you tell your kids about, and you can't let their godfather miss out!" 

Owen laughed and knocked his fist against Ben's. "Sorry, mate. Maybe next time I'll invite everyone to witness my skill at flirting with semiconscious men."

Ben pouted. "Whatever." Then his face brightened and he sat forward. "If he keeps improving at this rate, you can actually ask him about it. And then I can say 'I told you so', and you can live happily ever after."

Owen tried to look sceptical, but a grin broke through. "It sucks that I can't go tomorrow, though."

"I'm sure Eddie would rearrange the groups for you. He seems pretty invested in your love story for the ages, if you ask me."

At dinner, the players were all determinedly not staring at Owen. Frustrated, he hissed into Ben's ear, "Whar the hell did I say? They look like I've got the plague!" Ben mumbled something quietly, and Owen twisted to face him, fully prepared to start shouting, when Dylan intervened.

"Owen, what I think the boys are trying to say is that they don't mind that you're gay, or that you like George."

He looked around the table incredulously. "That what you thought you were doing? I thought I'd offended you or something."

"We're rugby players, Faz," Dan Cole piped up. "We're not exactly known for our subtlety."

"We wish we could have been more accepting so you didn't feel that you had to hide," Chris said, using his captain/father figure voice.

Owen looked around at the assembled players - his  _team_ \- and choked up. It was one thing to be tolerated by omission, and another thing to be explicitly accepted. "Thanks, lads," he said. "Uh - it means a lot." He ducked his head under the intensity of the team's gazes, and breathed a sigh of relief when Dylan very obviously changed the subject.

After a restless day of binge-watching Offspring, it was Owen's turn to visit the hospital again. One of George's nurses chattered happily to him and Ben as they went to George's room. Ben sat down first, watching avidly as George's eyes tracked Owen across the room. Owen took George hand, a thrill running through him at George's answering motion.

They talked idly for an hour, and Owen kissed George's cheek before they left. Now there was no mistaking the smile on his face. Ben tousled George's hair and walked away. "Keep going, Georgie. You're doing so well, and I'm so proud." Owen whispered. He leaned in for another kiss, this time on the forehead. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ben gaping in the doorway. "Piss off, mate, we're having a moment!" George let out a huff of air and tightened his hand on Owen's. "Such a pain, isn't he?" Owen stage-whispered. George smiled again. "I'll see you soon, depending on the rotation and who's staying." He walked away, sharing one last, lingering glance with the other man.

Ben, as could have been predicted, was over the moon. "It's like some clichéd romance, except it's actually happening," he said dreamily, staring at the ceiling of Owen's hotel room. "I thought me and my wife were cute, but you two take it to the next level without even talking about it."

"We will, though," Owen said. "The doctors told me that the next stage after recovering motion is usually speech, so yeah. The romance for the ages might actually be a thing, but who knows? He might not even like me."

Ben rolled his eyes. "Drop the melodrama, Farrell. The way he looked at you earlier - I've only seen that once before, and that was when we won the Prem in 2013." 

Owen lay back on his bed, mirroring Ben. "It's nice to know I'm not just projecting. I've been feeling like this for so long that I thought it would never happen."

It had been a week since the final Test match, so most of the players were heading home. They rotated through George's room for the entire two hours of morning visiting time. Owen ended up waiting in the cafe, waiting for the ICU to be reopened for the afternoon. This visit was the first time in several days that they had been alone together, and Owen wanted to tell George everything. "The guys told me that they were cool with me being gay the other day. It was kind of funny, in hindsight. I thought I'd done something wrong, but they were just trying to not be awkward, and Chris had to explain everything." He ran his fingers lightly down George's arm. "It's still cool. Obviously all the Sarries knew already, but it was a nice gesture." George's eyes, clear and focused, didn't leave Owen's face as he spoke.

"And to make my day even better," he continued, "a nurse told me earlier that you might start talking again soon. Pretty awesome, right?" George made a non-commital noise in the back of his throats and Owen started laughing. "God, Georgie, you had to upstage everyone again." George smiled and grunted. "Aww, mate, you're amazing," Owen said softly and hugged him. "I need to tell someone, but I'll be back in a few."

When Owen came back with two nurses in tow, George stubbornly refused to cooperate. "Come on, mate, you're making me look stupid," Owen pleaded. "I didn't want to leave you. Please? Just one little noise?" George closed his eyes with a long-suffering expression on his face, but eventually made a soft noise. Owen looked at the nurses in triumph. "See! He's doing really well." They smiled at his exuberance and agreed. Yet again, Owen was herded out of the room so they could carry out more tests. 

He sat in the waiting room for twenty minutes, messing around on his phone, when a frustrated-looking nurse walked up to him. "Apologies, Mr Farrell," she said, "but he won't respond to us. Could you possibly try again?" Owen nodded and followed her, buzzing with happiness. Known George Ford-whisperer, that was him.

As they walked in, George said quietly, "'Wen?" It was the best thing he'd heard in weeks. He hurried over to his friend. 

"Did you miss me that much, Georgie?" George blinked slowly. "Come on, you need to help the doctors." George didn't look any more convinced. "I know - pretend it's a post-match interview. No one cares what you say, as long as you say something." George huffed out a laugh and nodded.

Owen sat by George's side, silently observing the battery of tests. It was all bearable until the response to pain. "Sorry, I-" he blurted, and rushed out of the room. In the corridor, he slumped to the floor and shoved his head between his knees. His breath was harsh in his throat and loud in his ears, but it couldn't drown out George's tiny whimpers.  _This is good_ , he reminded himself.  _A good sign. He's responding._ But George was still being hurt, and Owen never wanted that to happen.

After what felt like an age, a doctor poked her head out of the door and invited Owen back in. George was lying still on the bed, eyes broadcasting loathing to all those in the immediate vicinity. "'Wen," he repeated plaintively, and lifted his hand a few inches towards Owen.

"Hey, mate, it's okay,"he murmured, stroking George's hair. "The better you do on these tests, the less likely it is that you'll have to do them again. It's like, I don't know . . . GCSEs? Do them well enough the first time, and you won't have to do resits." George snorted and Owen felt gratified. "Anyway, let's talk about something else." He could sense the doctors slipping out to give them more privacy, and he was grateful for it. "Did I tell you what Gabriel did last week? No? Well . . ."


	7. seven

The days slipped past, a haze of growing familiarity punctuated by hospital visits. By the middle of July, Owen could take George out in a wheelchair around the ward and even down to the restaurant. Being able to pretend that everything was normal – or what passed for it, these days – was a gift, and nothing more so than when George had his first proper meal in weeks.

“It has – texture!” George said, wide-eyed and staring at his forkful of pasta. “There’s actual flavour and – and – _vegetables_.”  
Owen couldn’t help but laugh at his awestruck expression. He reached out and covered George’s hand with his own. “Yeah, welcome back to the land of the living, mate.” George flinched ever so slightly and went back to eating his lunch, although he didn’t move his hand away from Owen’s. “What are the nurses saying at the moment?” Owen asked, awkwardly trying to change the subject.  
“Erm, mainly that they’re starting me on physical rehab in a few days. I might be able to fly back to England by next month if I can walk properly.”

Owen smiled, trying to hide the storm of emotions inside. Obviously, it was great that George was getting better and nearly ready to go home. Really, honestly, great news. But a selfish part of Owen wanted them to stay right where they were, caught in a little bubble of Australian hospital wards. He didn’t know if whatever kind of relationship they were developing could survive out there in the real world, and the familiar insularity of the hospital was reassuring. Of course, he didn’t know how George felt about everything – he probably couldn’t wait to get out.

“Do you – are you looking forward to leaving here?” Owen asked quietly.  
George shrugged and poked at his food listlessly. “I suppose so. It would be nice to see my family again, and to actually go outside.” He sighed. “But I like being here now. Everyone’s so friendly, and I know that the press and people in general won’t be like that.”  
That made sense. The Australian media had been pretty brutal to George in the first few days, even when he was in the depths of a coma. If anything got out about his current condition, all the reporters would be straight back into the hospital trying to get the scoop on how he felt about the whole – incident.

“Well, I can’t do much about the walking and things like that, but I can ask to take you out one day. They’d have to let you – and they should trust me enough by now that we can go by ourselves and you could actually have some privacy for once.” Owen studied George’s face closely, watching for any obviously negative reactions.  
The other man’s mouth quirked into a short smile. “That would be fun. Maybe the harbour. I can always hear the gulls from my room, but there are too many buildings in the way to actually see the water.”  
Owen nodded. “I’ll ask the nurses later. As long as your next check-up is as good as today’s, they should be fine with a couple of hours outside.”  
George’s eyes softened. “Thank you, Owen, I really appreciate it.”

Four days later, Owen and George (and a nurse, the hospital’s one concession to health and safety) ventured out of the hospital for the first time in a month. George was sat in his wheelchair, hunched over slightly as if overcome by the onslaught of sights and sounds. Even the volume of people that hurried past was overwhelming – compared to the hospital staff and visitors, it was akin to an army. Luckily the harbour was only a few minutes’ walk away, so Owen could park George next to a bench out of the rush of traffic. The nurse gave them a few metres of personal space, for which Owen was eternally grateful.

“How does it feel, Georgie? Everything you imagined it would be?” Owen knocked their shoulders together gently.  
“Eh,” George said. “It’d be better with fish and chips, but never mind. This wind is better than just a breeze through a window too.” Owen smiled broadly. At least George was happy now. Over the past few weeks, even as his recovery had progressed, some of the energy had gone out of his friend, but the trip seemed to have brought back his spark. “But, yeah, thanks, Owen. A change is really nice after so long inside.” George carefully linked their hands together, staring straight ahead as if to hide the evidence of his reddening cheeks.  
Owen squeezed George’s hand reassuringly and laid his head on the other man’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it as much as I am. And I can’t wait for you to be able to come home, see the dogs again, that kind of thing.” There was silence, except for the lapping of the waves.

Then the moment was broken by the nurse asking them to go back to the hospital. Owen smiled softly at George, then stood up. “Come on, buddy, enough excitement for one day.” George punched him none-too-carefully in the stomach and scowled. “Eh, whatever, Fordy. Your puny arms can’t break these abs.” He flexed his biceps ostentatiously, snickering when the nurse shot him a disapproving glare.

Every time Owen visited George after that (not that he had much else to do), there seemed to be some new breakthrough in his recovery. The first noticeable change was George pedalling slowly on a stationary bike to start building up his leg muscles again. Sometimes Owen sweet-talked the nurses into bringing out a second bike, so he could work out alongside his friend. If George managed to do half the distance Owen covered, that counted as a good day. There was more coordination practice – although George seemed reluctant to practise writing by hand for so long when he only really needed it for autographs. (‘And who needs nice handwriting for them? It’s just a squiggle.’) By July 30th, George had progressed to the extent that he could shuffle around the ward practically unassisted for fifteen minutes at a time, and the doctors were making noises about him being transferred back to London by the end of the week.

The two men were sat in the hospital restaurant again, quietly discussing the impending relocation. “It’s not that I don’t want to leave,” George said, looking at his folded hands. “But moving back to the UK means I have to start thinking about the future. Here, I’ve been taking it one day at a time. In London, my agent will want to know what I’m doing next season, and Eddie will be calling, and my parents will want to know where I’m living, and Bath will-”  
Owen interrupted George’s increasingly rushed speech. “Hey, calm down. I know I can’t help much with Eddie and Todd, but you can always stay with me while you get things sorted out. The hospitals in London are all pretty close, and I’ve got a spare room.”  
George blinked at him gratefully. “You’d do that? Thanks so much, mate. I knew my parents wanted me to stay with them for a few months, but this is definitely a better option.” He grinned, panic seemingly averted. “And then the doctors can let me leave sooner, because I’ll be so much closer to the big hospitals.” They smiled at each other, eyes shining with the possibilities.

When it came down to it, Owen’s offer of accommodation seemed to be the clinching factor in securing George’s transfer. The team of doctors and nurses were initially reluctant to let him go so soon, but Owen smiled winningly and told them all about the _amazing_ support system which George had and the _very_ convenient location of his house near several _major_ hospitals which could be reached within half an hour in case of any emergencies. By the end of his speech/tirade, the medical staff were nodding slowly, and the details were hammered out within the hour. Finally, everyone was agreed: a further two days in Melbourne, then the flight to the UK, and another three days in a London hospital for monitoring any possible after-effects of flying for so long.

After the meeting, George grabbed Owen in the corridor and pulled him into a fierce hug. “Honestly, Owen, I don’t know how I would have got through this without you. Thank you a million times.”  
Owen wrapped his arms tightly around his friend. “I just want to know you’re safe and happy, y’know? You’d have done it for me.”  
“Of course I would,” George said, with tears filling his eyes. “God, always, Owen. If you ever need anything – and I’m serious about this – just ask, and I’ll be there.”

Two days later, the plane was taking off from Melbourne Airport. George was clutching the armrests tightly as usual, but this time Owen had the confidence to rest his hand lightly on George’s and give him an encouraging smile. Twenty-six hours, and this whole experience would be over – or at least, it would be for him. He could slip back into everyday life in his own house, preparing for the new season at his club like nothing had ever changed. But for George, the uncertainty must be horrendous. The doctors’ advice had been to take things steady. The problem was: what was ‘steady’ for a professional rugby player? Contact was out of the question for at least a month, that much was obvious, but would George be ready to play by Christmas? The beginning of next season? Would he even want to return to the sport that nearly killed him? Owen's stomach was twisting with anxiety just thinking about it, and it wasn’t even his life. But it was George’s, so it was basically the same thing.

Owen sat back in his seat as the plane travelled over the sea, hand still touching George’s. All he could do was be there for George, be the support he needed as he tried to make himself fit back into the shape of the person who left England two months before. Owen looked over at George, his face slack with sleep, and felt a burst of affection. He smiled once more. George was here, with him, and for the moment that was all that mattered.


End file.
